Confessions of a Single MiddleSister
by LadyEdithC
Summary: Daughter of an Earl, fourth-grade teacher, middle-sister, and pathologically single, Edith Crawley has had enough of people telling her how to change her life; between bad-hair days, surreal phone-calls, cursed dates, hideous men, and an illogical enamourment for imaginary characters, we'll follow the journey of an urban single woman trying to survive life and family. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Daughter of an Earl, fourth-grade teacher, middle-sister, and pathologically single, Edith Crawley has had enough of people telling her how to change her life; between bad-hair days, surreal phone-calls, cursed dates, hideous men, and an illogical enamourment for imaginary characters, we'll follow the journey of an urban single woman trying to survive life and family. Modern AU._

* * *

**January, 1****st**

**00:15 am**

I refuse to write a New Year's Resolutions Entry. There you have it. What's the point, when I know that I will fail every single one of them? Life is full enough of disappointments, I don't need to add self-lies to the list. It takes the pressure off and by the end of the year I won't feel like a complete failure because I've eaten more than I should have, or haven't been zen enough, or have signed up to the gym but gone just twice (optimistically speaking).

What I really need to focus on is my (non-existent) love life. This year, beware of:

1. Emotionally unavailable men

2. Relatives

3. Dead People

_4. Actually_ unavailable men – who are married and therefore Lewd Relationship Pariahs.

5. Psychologically unstable men, compulsive liars, unsexy bloodsuckers

6. Old men

7. Imaginary characters

**1:05 am**

Not that I _need_ to be in a relationship. I'm a perfectly independent and self-fulfilling career single-woman who doesn't need a man to define her, _thankyouverymuch._

**1:10 am**

It just would be nice to go to my parents' New Year's Party with someone, just for a change. If Aunt Rosamund asks once again "Edith _darling_, how is our lovelife going? Tell me e-ve-ry-_thing_!" I'm going to drown myself in the Grand Marnier Cream bowl.

I don't want to go to Downton. It's a nightmare, and this year Sybil refuses to come (why couldn't I be the rebel child, WHY? Ugh) so I'll be sitting alone between Mary and Matthew, absorbing all the pent up sexual frustration and trying to eat my pudding avoiding the passive-aggressive cutlery-abuse as lustful glances are stolen on both my sides. Haven't we all suffered enough? I hate the _off_-phase of their on-and-off relationship.

**1:45 am**

Ha-ha! I just remembered that Aunt Rosamund's boyfriend (ex?) has been arrested last week for a financial fraud. A _common_ delinquent! "Aunt _darling_, how is our judicial life going? Tell me e-ve-ry-_thing_!"

Knowing her, she'll wave it off as nothing with a perfectly manicured hand. She'll probably negate the very existence of said boyfriend or said scandal. Just typical. The only thing nobody ever forgives you, at parties, is the state of constant spinsterhood. Umph. At least my conjugal visits won't happen in a caravan. (not that I have conjugal visits. Or those sorts of visits. Or a caravan. I would love a caravan. I could take long roadtrips with my friends, who are after all the family you choose for yourself. And we could travel through Europe like young free spirits and I could find a Danish boyfriend with perfect teeth. Not that finding a boyfriend would be the goal of the trip, that is instead aimed at living life and enjoying friends and discovering new sunsets. Which is _exactly_ the trick to actually find a boyfriend: it's like it always happens with the missing sock – when you stop looking for it, it suddenly and inexplicably appears in your purse and an Asian shopkeeper will judge you for it.)

Where was I? Oh yes. I wonder if I can ditch on the party.

**2:30 am**

Mom has sent me a very nice text message telling me how much she misses me. Devious wench.

**6:50 am**

Oh shit shit shit. My hair is a mess, I have dark shadows under my eyes and a terrible headache. Everyone will think I got wasted at some glamorous party last night and I'll be severely judged by every toff of the County.

**6:55 am**

Which is probably preferable to the truth: night spent eating pop tarts and watching a Doctor Who Marathon on the telly. In fact, maybe I'll subtly let them believe I _was_ at some glamorous party. Ha! Take that, I'm a young, sophisticated and popular young woman who parties all night with friends.

**7:00 am**

Frankly, my last thought was shallow and degrading, I can see that now. Obviously, there's nothing glamorous in getting drunk and unfit to be seen by the elderly. I'll call Thomas. He'll probably know what to do about the scary-dark-circles around my eyes.

**7:25 am**

He says hemorrhoid cream works wonders in these cases. He's a genius.

**7:27 am**

I don't have hemorrhoid cream. I don't _have_ hemorrhoids. **Why** would he think I have hemorrhoids?

**9:30 am, Downton**

"Edith, _darling_! You look terrible. You should stop staying up all night on that godawful laptop, it's not good for your skin!"

Umph.

**4:56 pm, Downton**

I can't believe I'm going to miss _Sherlock_ for this.

**11:45 pm, London**

THEY'RE GETTING MARRIED?

* * *

.

**January, 2****nd**

**9:26 am**

I woke up and remembered that I'll die alone in my apartment, almost surely in an embarrassing and compromising pose. This morning I took some extra care as I climbed out of the bathtub. Better safe than sorry.

Of course I'm _happy_ for my sister. She found love. He proposed at midnight. Like _When Harry Met_ fecking _Sally_. And under the snow. At the same moment, I was crying at the Doctor's broken "I don't want to go". They weren't even together on New Year's Eve, but it doesn't matter of course. I'm _happy_. Seriously.

But is there anything worse than attending your sister's wedding? Maybe by then I'll be in a coma. Fingers crossed.

**10:40 am**

My mother called.

"Hello, dear. It's your mother."

She hasn't really grasped the concept of "Caller ID".

"Isn't it terrible, what's happening in Syria?", I reply instead with a cheerful tone.

"What does it have to do with anything?"

"I just wanted to say one last sensible thing before I got sucked up in your nonsense world"

If she's nonplussed, she doesn't show. Instead, she pointedly ignores me. She's terribly British for someone born and bred in Newport. "What do you think of lavender?"

"What?"

"Don't say 'what', dear. What are your opinions on lavender?"

"In…general?" do people have opinions on colours? Should I be more informed on the colour's world and its intrigues? Did lavender commit a terrible crime against amaranth? Suddenly I feel under examination, and I'm going to flunk it. "It's…nice?"

"I thought so. If we left it to your sister, she'd pick bisque. Bisque! With _your_ skin!"

I take a deep breath. And another one. I can't deal with my mother this early in the morning. Or in any moment of the day. I need a glass of wine.

"Why are we discussing colours?", I try, diplomatically, with the tone of some tired, frustrated, mother talking to her three-years-old brat.

"For your bridesmaid dress, silly. Your sister is getting married."

"I remember, she announced it _yesterday_." I stress every word very slowly. Maybe she's had a stroke.

"Then do try to keep up, dear. You sound terribly sluggish, have you been drinking?"

With a hand I start massaging my temples. "No. I don't care about the colour, Mary can put on me whatever she wants. In fact, I have positive opinions regarding every colour. They're all extremely lovely and well-bred."

"Don't be cheeky young lady." Then, after a pause, and with a dangerously thrilling tone, "You know, Evelyn Napier will be at the wedding."

Oh Jesus. Not again.

My mother took it upon herself to set me up with any man sitting on my right at each of her dinner parties. Apparently, I'm not to be trusted to find my own husband (possibly true. But still.). Maybe I'm her lost cause, that project you dive yourself into even knowing you'll never come out of it triumphant. Like those people fighting Famine in Africa.

"Please, mama. We already tried that, and it didn't work out. How many times are you going to introduce me to family friends' firstborns saying 'Meet Edith, my _other_ daughter. She's single.'?"

"As many times as it takes."

Oh God, I'm her Famine.

"And Edith, let's not repeat last Augusts' performance."

Side note. Last August I was leisurely enjoying a Saturday evening at home when my mother knocks on my door with her new, rampant, eligible bachelor of an attorney. Without notice. "I was just in the neighborhood with Colin and I thought I'd pass by to say hello! Come in Colin, don't be shy. This is Edith. She's single."

Now, I want to stress that it was an August Saturday evening. And she didn't call first. Does any normal human being lay around the house on a Saturday evening with their makeup on and clean, stylish hair? And how was I supposed to know she had someone with her when I unlocked the door? Who on _Earth_ makes surprise calls on their daughters with an unknown _man_? It was too late to kick some of the trash under the sofa and hide the maltesers jumbo pack by the time I processed the presence of the intruder. My _North and South _DVD was still playing.

Unsurprisingly, Rude Colin fled the apartment after a first look at me, adducing some improbable work excuse. As if anyone worked at 8pm on a Saturday.

Ever since, I've learned to pretend I'm not home. It's a silent, delicate art. Where was I? Oh yes. Phonecall.

"Honestly, that was a fiasco of your own doing. And what is wrong with North and South marathons anyway? You know what some girls do on Saturday evenings? At least I don't do drugs, you should be thanking God- Hello? Hello?"

She had hung up on me.

**4:05 pm**

BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH NACKED ON MY DVR.

There is a God after all.

**10:38 pm**

After much consideration, I realize my life is indeed full and rewarding. Tomorrow I'm going back to school to educate young minds, to form the future executive class of our Country. The success of Britain is in my hands, like a lump of clay ready to be shaped in a beautiful vase that will thank his Fourth Grade teacher in his Pulitzer Acceptance Speech for having inspired him with her lesson on Dahl.

And my father thought Reading English at University would've been a waste of time! Will the bankers, and lawyers, and brokers, and politicians of my family ever contribute to build a new hope as I'm doing? I don't think so!

Children are the future!

* * *

.

**January, 3****rd**

**8:20 pm**

Children are awful and I hate them.

**8:25 pm**

Okay, that was harsh coming from an inspired educator such as myself. And not _all_ children are awful.

Except for the Hideous Jeffrey. I don't understand why it should be immoral to despise a child – they're human creatures too, and as such they're loathable.

As a responsible but loving teacher, I had decided to let the children adapt to the passage from holidays to school with a light day of coloring and writing about their Christmas – reveling in its joys and feeding their creativity.

Anyway, I was reading a magazine. There was a v. interesting article on Colin Firth.

So, there was a gorgeous picture that went with the article, and I was studying it for purely anthropological reasons when Jeffrey comes to me and starts staring at the aforementioned photograph.

"Who is he?"

Excited for the natural curiosity I was already awakening in my students, I smiled broadly at him, "He's Colin Firth, a brilliant actor and the pride of Britain."

"Why?"

"Because he's very talented. He won a BAFTA and an Oscar."

"Why?"

"For his outstanding portrayal of King George VI. Remember when I told you about the Queen's father?"

I was being so understanding and loving and an exceptionally great teacher whose students learn history through fun. And he had to ruin my big moment.

"He's ugly."

"Who?"

"Colin Fart."

I think I had to stare at him for a couple of minutes in religious silence. It couldn't be happening. I asked, with a faint, trembling voice, "What?"

"He's ugly."

"He's a world renown _heartthrob_!" I tried, in a desperate attempt.

"I think he's ugly!" he was shrieking by now, for inexplicable reasons. Hideous child.

"Maybe he thinks_ you're_ ugly."

Retroactively, maybe it wasn't the most responsible thing to say. I am, after all, an adult. But nowadays children are so disrespectful.

I profusely apologized to his awful mother (pale, thin and with an air that said her son was the future Bill Gates and David Beckham all in one package) after a 45 minutes long meeting with the Principal. Honestly, maybe she should teach her children not to offend National Treasures.

* * *

.

**January, 5****th**

**3:22 pm**

Maybe I should get a cat.

**4:14 pm**

Talked to Sarah about the possibility of getting a cat. She wasn't very supportive.

"The last time you were entrusted with a puppy you lost it."

"That was Thomas, and anyway he found it again."

I can practically hear her eyebrows raising and her eyes rolling. She still doubts Thomas managed to find Papa's dog. Her theory is that he was too scared of my father, so he bought a twin dog somewhere and swapped the puppies. The original one is still somewhere in Soho. I tell her it's an absurd theory, but secretly I wouldn't put it past Tom. She doesn't need to know that.

"You can't take care of yourself, never mind a poor living being depending on you."

"I've been living by myself for almost six years now!"

"What is in your fridge?" she asks, dubiously.

"My fridge is very full, thank you."

"What suitable, healthy food is in your fridge?"

"…this is beside the point. And anyway what if I got pregnant tomorrow? Are you saying I would be _unfit_ to be a mother? I work with children, you know!"

She doesn't need to know about the little Jeffrey's debacle.

"…maybe you should get a cat."

Triumph!

**7:45 pm**

Gah, there's nothing to eat. I'm already in my pajamas, I can't go out to provide for myself. I'll order Chinese.

**7:48 pm**

Damnit. I don't have cash. Would the delivery boy accept payment with a credit card?

**7:50 pm**

Apparently not. I'll eat cookies and carrots (ah! Healthy AND eligible food).

**9:00 pm**

Maybe I'm not ready for a cat. I'll get a pet-plant, and if it survives until June I'll trade it for a kitten.

* * *

.

**January, 7****th**

**6:32 pm**

I went to visit Granny for tea. She was v. encouraging and sympathetic.

"Don't worry, your turn will come." She says, after I told her about Mama's fascination with lavender.

"Will it? Maybe I'm just to be the maiden aunt whose prettier relations try to avoid at family reunions."

"Don't be defeatist dear, it's very middle class." I love her. She's my hero. Sure, she voted for Margaret Thatcher, but I guess nobody's perfect.

"I wonder. This society discriminates singles – you go to the groceries and all you can find are double portions. You go to the movie theater alone, and the attendant eyes you suspiciously. You go to a fair, and some carousels' rides are strictly for two. What is wrong with being alone?"

"Now now, don't give me the feminist 'I complete myself' speech, because…of course you _do_. It's utterly pointless. Listen to me. Your time will come, but for God's sake try to avoid unsuitable men in the future. You have quite a knack for impossible romances."

"They find me!" I grumble, on the defensive. John told me he was _divorced_. How was I supposed to _know_? As for any other man, my usual approach when they say "Hi" is to reply with an "Errr" and flee to the ladies' room.

"And for God's sake, would you go to an hairdresser? You look like a mangy pony. You know, men do have eyes."

That's more like it.

**9:50 pm**

Sybil called. Apparently weekends are for the family. Joy!

"How are you taking it?"

I roll my eyes. _Honestly_. Sybil is a darling, but sometimes she can be really daft in her over-charitableness.

"I wish you would stop asking that. I'm single, I don't have terminal cancer. Mary is getting married, I'm happy for her. You don't need to treat me as if I was about to jump off the Tower Bridge."

"I hear the proposal was very romantic. They swirled in the snow. He knelt down and everything."

"So the story goes. I just hope they'll actually go through with it this time around."

"What a horrible thought. Of course they will."

With their past record, I'll only be relieved after the "I do".

"Of course they will, yes."

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?"

Damn. I told everyone I was having a night out. Technically, it's not a lie. I thought I had left my sunglasses on the terrace so I went out to check. No luck.

"It was splendid, yes. Brilliant…Um. Sybil, I was just about to go out again actually. Did you need something in particular…?"

"Well."

Uh oh.

"The fact is…I might as well cut to the chase. I'm pregnant."

For a moment I stare at my phone. So I _am_ going to be the maiden aunt after all. But then I feel incredibly excited at the prospect of my little sister giving the gift of life to another little human being. See? I AM a good person.

"Oh darling, it's fantastic! I'm so happy for you and Tom! When is it due?"

"Around May, I think. I'm going to look huge and awful in that lavender."

We laugh, and I can barely sit still on my chair.

"Edith….I need a favour."

Uh, we're back to that tone.

"Of course, sweetie. Tell me."

"Would you tell Papa? I think he needs to be prepared, and you have a way with words…"

I think I need a sherry.

**TBC…?**

* * *

**.  
**

**A/N: **The article Edith was reading appeared on "The Guardian" and was written by Susie Steiner.


	2. Chapter 2

**January, 13th **

**Friday**

**08:30 am**

How is it that one day your hair seems to have found its perfect balance, and before you go to sleep it behaves splendidly, and then the morning after you discover it went over the critical mass and spiked ends go everywhere shouting "CODE RED CODE RED" begging to be cut? It all happens in one night, right after you wash it, like evil Gremlins, and there's nothing you can do.

**08:31 am**

Nothing.

**08:35 am**

Sod it. No one in real life has good hair anyway. I'm off to work.

**08:37 am**

Isn't it unfair when some men can sport better hairdos than you do? It's not like they really _need_ good hair, instead they show off their wavy soft curls without having to fight with it each morning and end up defeated most of the times.

By "They" I mean "Matthew". I'll ask him about beauty products the next time I see him. No way it's just water and soap, Blondie.

**11:20 am, Classroom**

I realized it's Friday the 13th today. Not that I'm superstitious. I'm an educated, rational young woman.

**11:22 am, Classroom**

But then again, Mary _did_ set my hair on fire that one time. Supposedly not on purpose, which remains to be seen.

And it's also when I found out that my boyfriend Patrick, whose name was actually Peter, was cheating on me with that skanky nurse. Also, he was probably a con-man. And Canadian. Don't ask.

**11:35 am, Classroom**

Oh God, why did I leave the house?

**8:10 pm, Marble Arch**

Am still alive. I might have overreacted, I'll admit as much, when I confiscated the kids' scissors this morning. But excuse a poor woman for being traumatized due to burnt hair and a broken heart.

I spent a lovely afternoon with Thomas and Sarah. We went to see War Horse – a bit odd. I mean, the amount of horse-love was borderline _Equus_-esque but I'm afraid Thomas would actually run me over with his car if I tried to repeat my humble opinion. Ever. Again. He's a darling, truly, but sometimes you just want to bitchslap his face.

So, we were in line for the tickets and discussing my (lack of a) life.

"What happened to that pet-plant you swore you'd get?" Honestly, trust Sarah to forget about your lowest moments.

"You're getting a plant? Oh darling, why?", interjected Thomas.

"I think I can manage not to kill a plant, thank you for your faith."

"She did work in a farm that one Summer," offered Sarah.

"She drove her car around, she hardly has green fingers."

"'_She'_ is right here, Will&Grace."

"Of course dear, we can see you. How come you haven't gotten that plant yet?" Thomas sounded conciliatory, like a very competent horse-whisperer.

"Well," I began, because I actually had a theory about this, "It's like a pregnancy-"

"Your need to sprinkle every five minutes and then life comes out of your vagina?"

"…No. I have to wait for the right one. I don't want just _any_ plant. I have standards."

The last part of the sentence died out, as we witnessed the most horrifying sight to any group of desperate singles: Improbable People on a Date.

My father's secretary, Ms. Hughes, was crossing the street with a man (who looked like an older Keith Lemon) by her side and they acted all disgustingly cozily.

"Is that Ms. Hughes?", I whispered, obviously in clear denial. Old people shouldn't be allowed to date when the younger generations are alone with their sad friends in a 30 minutes queue to see a movie about _horses_.

"Christ."

"Oh _please_. If she has a boyfriend then I'm a giraffe!", hissed Sarah. I started staring at her neck with suspicion, for Keith had just leaned down to kiss Ms. Hughes and she had giggled in response. When I was positive enough nothing was going to grow abnormally, I took my eyes away and met Thomas', who had been doing the same. We shared a look of mutual and reverent understanding, as if we had just met Willy Wonka and survived with zero extra-long-limbs-consequences.

**09:05 pm, Home**

Good God Almighty, why do you hate me?

On my way back home I saw a beautiful babygirl in a pram, alone, waving at me desperately with her little hand. I drew nearer, cooing at her, and because I'm a poor excuse for a human being, I reached out to take the lollipop she was handing me (it's known that babies perceive desperation like dogs perceive earthquakes). And then her mother came out of the store, looking threatening daggers at me as if I were some sort of child molester. Or a crazy lady who abducts infants (who had been, I want to emphasize, left alone in the middle of a dark street) (she didn't particularly appreciate me telling her just that).

So, to summarize today's events:

_Number of mothers who think I'm a deranged pedophile: 1, number of improbable women (who are not me) on a date: 1, number reasons to live: uncertain._

* * *

**.  
**

**January, 15****th**

**Sunday**

**07:45 am, London**

The hair situation is reaching alarming levels. It's gone rogue, and my hairdresser will only be back next week from her time off. I know technically I could go elsewhere (it's an emergency after all), but hairdressers have a way of telling if somebody else's finger have worked on your scalp, and they're ruthless if you show yourself disloyal to their genius. Oh God, I don't even want to imagine what she could do. This is a very delicate situation. I feel like Clinton, pressured between Monica and Hillary.

**08:05 am**

But it doesn't matter. I'm a woman on a mission.

I'm telling Papa about Sybil after the service today. She better promise me her firstborn, with the things I do for her.

**08:07 am**

Not in a pedo-kidnapper kind of way. But I think I deserve a little Edith Branson?

Then again, what if my name is cursed? Am I preventively ruining the life of this innocent creature?

**12:05 pm, Downton**

The service was one of the most surreal experiences of my life (how much does it say about me, really?).

Every now and then the new vicar stared at his feet and giggled as if they were the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen; he slurred conspicuously during the homely, and cackled at the word "intercourse". I looked around myself in utter disbelief, as no one seemed to be shocked in the least; instead they placidly nodded as the vicar (cheeks visibly flush, eyes spirited and what I suspected to be drool on the corner of his mouth) shouted vehemently "Love is a force that can be controlled! It's within our will, because as Jesus taught us, it can and must be commanded!"

Hah. Honestly, if it could be commanded my life wouldn't be as disastrous as it is. I wonder if the poor vicar has been having relationship-problems recently. It would explain the state of intoxication. I can sympathize.

We left the church (leaving poor Father Hamish staggering to the vestry behind us); Mama and Isobel began to praise the new vicar, and I had to burst out "Oh, I can't be the only one who noticed he was drunk, right?".

Mom turned to me with a lethal glare, and I felt suddenly chastised as if I were 9 again. "Don't be so trivial, Edith. It was spiritual rapture and religious ecstasy." For a moment I stared at her in shock, clinging to the small hope she might've been joking. She was deadly serious.

"Yes," added Granny, with a suspicious grin, "He was inebriated with _God_". Mama nodded in satisfaction, but I noticed Granny and Matthew chuckling behind their hands. There's still hope in this world.

**5:55 pm, hidden in a closet (an actual closet. Not a metaphorical closet. I haven't given up on men. Yet.)**

Well, it could've gone worse.

I waited until tea time to deliver the happy news – because honestly, how could anyone get mad when tea and cake are within their reach?

And I was actually _thrilled_ about it. I envisioned myself as the Herald of Joy, carrying the Gospel to the rest of the family. When did babies stop being a good thing? (unless you're a teen mom, I guess.)

But nope. As soon as I dropped the bomb my mother looked at me crossly (ah, what's new here, really?) and then immediately turned to my father, whose face had gone ashen. Bit of a Drama Queen, aren't we?

With a sweet voice she said "Oh, this is _wonderful_ news! Isn't it, my love?" and at the same time she kept looking at me as if I had been put on this Earth only to torment her. She must have serious bipolar issues.

"So that's it," said Papa, sinking lower in his armchair, "She's crossed the Rubicon."

Granny rolled her eyes ominously and addressed him, "Oh Robert, she crossed it when she married him. What did you think was going to happen?"

Which is actually a good question, as I suspect Papa liked to believe (from time to time) that at night Tom and Sybil shared a chaste kiss before heading to sleep in separate bedrooms.

"She's barely out of Med School! What about her internship, what about her career-"

"Oh Papa, don't be ridiculous. Sybil's an adult, it was _her_ choice. And she will live with it."

Mary seemed slightly upset, and Matthew took her hand in his – which happened to calm her down instantly. Sometimes I wonder. They look at each other with these blissful, adoring eyes as if the rest of the room didn't even exist. It's downright depressing. Or very beautiful. Or really _really_ depressing.

Anyway, the conversation went on but everybody seemed to be silently blaming me for ruining their Sunday. Whatever happened to "don't shoot the messenger"?

I figured I'd better stay clear from the rest of the family for some time, hence the closet.

**6:05 pm, still in the closet**

I found a Mars bar in my purse. I could probably survive hours in here.

**6:07 pm, closet**

SPIDER.

**6:32 pm, Downton**

Back in the library. Mary is still glowering at me as if I had just saved Hitler's life. Sometimes I feel like she'll never let me live down that miniscule diplomatic incident.

When I was 15, I accidentally walked in on her humping the visiting student from Turkey whom we were housing. Believe me, I was scarred for life. She made me swear I wouldn't say anything, and I didn't _want_ to. But when I'm trying to keep a secret that I know to be a very HUGE secret I become fidgety; it eats me from the inside, and I start having paranoid thoughts on people around me being able to read minds. I kept my mouth shut for TWO WEEKS, so I was clearly trying. I couldn't sleep, and I sweat like a pig. But then dad made a joke over a stuffed turkey at dinner and it just sort of...slipped. Remember I was dehydrated and sleep-deprived, like a Guantanamo prisoner.

I didn't really witness the consequent outburst because I was sent to Summer Camp, but legend has it that papa locked her up for a week, and read salmons to her every night. Through the years, the story was adorned with juicy details - for example, no one ever saw the poor boy again; most of us suspect dad had him "dealt with" and fed to the dog. Or he went back to Turkey. We'll never know.

So. Maybe she MIGHT have a reason to be mad at me but honestly! It was over ten years ago, and anyway it's not my fault if I'm incapable to conceal her international promiscuity. She's probably not familiar with the concept of forgiveness the stoned vicar was trying to teach us about.

She grabs me by the elbow and drags me out of earshot. God, she doesn't want witnesses. I knew she was going to murder me one of these days. Do I have 101 on speed dial?

"That was not your news to deliver", she whispers, with a dangerously low tone. She does take after Mama.

"Sybil asked me." I reply, defensively. Mary doesn't seem entirely convinced, and I'm still a bit frightened by my previous murderous fears, not entirely sure this hasn't been her plan all along. God, Tracy was right. "Dress every day as if you were going to get killed in those clothes" - WHY DID I PUT ON KAKHI TROUSERS?

"She asked everyone, and you were the only one daft enough to comply. She should face the consequences of her actions; sending you to fight her battles is frankly beneath and unlike Sybil, and you shouldn't have let her."

Ah. So much for 'you have a way with words, Edith' 'Papa listens to you, Edith' 'I can only trust you, Edith'. Tut tut. I was at the bottom of the heap, and she was scratching it.

"Well, Papa took it well enough."

We turn to check on him through the glass doors. Mom is pouring him another brandy. I often think alcohol _is_ the solution. Poor dad.

**11:02 pm**

I feel emotionally abused by the Sherlock Finale. I wonder if I can call Amnesty International. It can't be legal, can it? The phone. Ugh.

**11:15 pm**

It was Mary. Typical of her to call _just_ when I'm distressed.

"I forgot to ask this morning: are you coming to Anna's surprise party?"

Hello Edith, how are you doing? It's your sister Mary. Do you have a minute? Oh, you sound so thin - what is your secret?

"...Edith? I don't have all night, you know. Some of us have a job."

"I have a job", I reply. My intention was to sound resentful, but I realize my voice is still shaky from the recent ugly sobbing (THANK YOU, ABUSIVE TELEVISION) so it comes out quite whiny.

"We're doing it at Gwen's place," a pause. Then she adds pointedly, "There'll be food."

Umph.

"Of course, I'd love to."

"Have you been crying?"

Damn, how long does it take for one's voice to become normal again?

"A bit." I say, curtly. Don't ask don't ask don't ask.

"Is everything alright?"

Damn. "Yes. No. It's complicated."

"Oh Good God, Edith, you're worrying me."

"Sherlock season finale aired today", I confess, biting back a sob. "Hello? Hello?"

How is it that my family's response to my emotional outbursts is to hang up on me? Isn't aristocracy supposed to be polite? It's like that -time I cried in front of _Wheatfield with Crows_ and everyone assumed I was having a picture-induced allergy reaction.

* * *

**.  
**

**January, 16****th**

**Monday**

**08:30 pm, Home**

Going out this morning I met the landlady. Apparently the apartment right below mine has been let at last.

"Bachelor. Youngish. Attorney, quite successful." she informed me with a wink.

Gah, put it in a letter, Jane Austen!

Why would I _care_? Why would _she_ think I should care? Why do old ladies think it's okay to meddle in random girls' private businesses?

I need to work on my lesson plans for tomorrow, anyway. Professional and all that.

**08:32 pm**

But I'm so bored. And it's really early. And Dirty Dancing is on.

**10:45 pm**

Had a sudden vision of the new mysterious tenant. Knocking on my door with some pleased-to-meet-you Sachertorte he baked himself.

No. Stop it.

**10:47 pm**

But as Alanis would say, 'life has a funny way of helping you out'. So who knows, maybe the Universe will deliver my soulmate right at my address. Hmmm.

**11:05 pm**

Enough. I have lessons plans to work on. Okay. I'll just go make some tea first.

* * *

.

**January, 17****th**

**Tuesday**

**05:30 am**

Oh crap crap crap.

**11:10 am, school, play break**

All's well what ends well. Obviously, I perfectly knew all along that I was going to prepare today's lessons in time. Granted, I was slightly late for classes. But time is a relative phenomenon anyway. Uh, Lily Walker seems troubled.

**11:20 am**

I feel so rewarded, as a teacher and human being. With my very trained eyes, I noticed the girl sitting alone on her chair, staring in the distance. Now, that is a feeling I know all too well. So I approached her, elegant and providential like Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.

It comes out she was feeling terribly insecure.

"I'm useless," she said, with wide eyes.

"What a horrible thing to think about oneself. Why would you be useless?"

"I'm just not good enough. And I never know what to say and I sound stupid."

"You do not. School makes us all feel like that every once in a while, as if we were not able to rise to the occasion. But you're a smart girl."

She didn't seem too convinced. Tough times call for tough _Sound of Music_ mashups. I assumed a very serious and somehow lyrical pose. "Climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow, 'till you find your dream. Everything will turn out fine, if you have enough confidence in yourself." Then, because I figured I needed to make a bigger impression than that, I pulled out the big guns. "Hakuna Matata". Which seemed to do the trick.

Now she's smiling and marching toward her classmates. I feel like the Mother Superior in the Sound of Music, like that inspirational teacher from the Dead Poets Society like-

**11:25 am**

MAJOR DISASTER. Apparently Lily was _not_ worried about school.

As soon as she reached her friends, she took Jeffrey's face between her hands and kissed him straight on the mouth. I've pimped a nine years old girl. Children nowadays!

**11:27 am**

However, she seemed very proud of herself afterwards, while Jeffrey looked as if someone had just shoved a frog down his throat. BWHAHAH.

**11:30 am**

Also, go figure, that Hideous Jeffrey had made beautiful, smart Lily feel useless. Ugh, little emotional slob, he is. There's a reason he's called Hideous Jeffrey after all. A man who can't appreciate Colin Firth must have something to hide.

**17:15 pm, home**

Sarah told me she read on _Marie Claire_ that natural and organic hair products are "best for your hair, best for your soul, and best for the environment". So maybe I can improve the Head Situation with what I have in the fridge. I'm taking control of what goes into my hair _and_ my life!

She said that raw eggs work wonders on dry hair. Olive oil gives them a new light, and lemon fights the grease. Hm.

**17:30 pm**

Technically, they're different hair treatments. But I figured I'd just mix all the ingredients. When it'll be over, I'll have soft, clean and effulgent locks.

**17:40 pm**

_OhmyGod_, I have a bloody omelet on my head. Why did I take hair-tips from someone who curls her fringe? I repeat. Curls. Her. Fringe.

[I made a sketch to give you an idea*]

*§§§  
( * * )

**18:30 pm**

On my third shampoo, the situation seems to have improved. Thomas is swinging by later with ridiculously expensive beauty products. "Bad for the environment, but miraculous for your hair." God bless his consumerist heart.

We agreed not to tell Sarah. With big hair come big secrets.

* * *

.

**TBC…?**

**A/N:** I wasn't too sure people would be interested in my poor Edith. Her life isn't much of an adventure, there isn't glamour and things do not often go as they should. Thanks for your support and enthusiastic reaction, I've decided to write more. I hope this chapter hasn't bored you too much.

Also, there's a _Community_ reference because this is how I roll.

_Next time, on Edith's life_: a party gone wrong, a new neighbor, living animals, and the shadow of a certain Mr. Napier….


	3. Chapter 3

**January 29th**

**Sunday  
**

**10:12 am**

.

I'm never leaving my bed again.

Everything hurts. I can't remember a single thing from yesterday's party at Gwen's and I suspect I got food poisoning because my stomach is churning unpleasantly. And there's this tingling sensation...like something licking at my toes and-

THERE'S A KITTEN IN MY BED.

**10:25 am**

No need to panic. It's not at all weird to wake up one morning with a cat in your bed.

I gave it some milk and what remained of a not-too-stale bagel (I needed to feed myself as well, to overcome the shock. I'm sure the cat understands.)

There must be a logical explanation. I need to find my phone.

**10:27 am**

A text from Mary.

_What got into you? Gwen can't find her kitten and _I _know it was you. Who the hell leaves a party with a cat?_

Oh God.

**11:05 am**

I called Sybil in a frenzy - somehow, I knew this was all her fault, really. I didn't even want to _go_. And then Tom told me to _loosen up, have fun, here drink this "juice"_ - only obviously the air-quotes were not specified and HOW WAS I EVEN SUPPOSED TO KNOW that there was alcohol in it?

Anyway, I dialed her number as if my life depended on it - which it sort of did.

"Oh honey, you're up already? Tom and I thought you'd be out of it for at least a day."

I still couldn't manage a verbal reply, so I just grunted and hid my head under a pillow. "Do you even remember anything from last night?"

She was not being helpful. I groaned into the phone like a strangled cat - probably not the best metaphor, given the present circumstances. "I've never seen you so wild, dear. It was such fun!"

Finally I found the strength to put an end to the train wreck that was Sybil's monologue about my own debauchery.

"Don't tell mom." I paused. The major embarrassment was mining my oral faculties, "God, don't even tell _me_."

I sat on the bed and bumped my forehead on my knees, waiting for the inevitable recounting of my Night of Shame. Instead, there was silence on the other line, and panic attacked me. It was _that_ bad. "It's a figure of speech. Please do tell me."

"It was nothing, really. You were just a little tipsy, that's all. At some point you declared you were bored and wished there'd be a sudden outburst of Spanish Flu to spice things up. Then you threw up on the stereo and left. With much dignity, I might add. It was probably your best exit yet."

"Ugh, you're not helping. And I only drank juice!". I feel emotionally roofied right now.

"Juice? Edith…I mean, comes to think about it, it's _your_ own fault. How could you not taste the vodka in it?" if she's supposed to be the nice one in the family, she's doing a crappy job at it.

"This is the last time I trust you or that sneaky leprechaun husband of yours."

"Oh, you've had fun. Admit it."

"Sybil. There's a cat in my bed."

"Okay."

"A cat I stole. In my bag. And then spent the night taking pictures of, pretending the kitty was my moustache. I have fur-balls in my mouth."

"You weren't too bad at the party, truly."

And this is why I should never leave my apartment. But Sybil was very sympathetic. Apparently nobody saw me steal the cat. I'm scared of my dark side. I blame Thomas: the pet-abducting compulsion must've rubbed off on me. Oh, another text from Mary.

_You're a disgrace._

Thank God I have a pet, now. Family is not being supporting at all.

**11:10 am**

The cat just barfed on my shirt.

**11:35 am**

Some people are downright rude.

Just as I was marveling at the colour of cat's vomit on my clothes, I heard someone knocking at the door. For one glorious moment, I imagined that the new tenant had come to call on me, offering pie and an invitation to borrow his sugar whenever I needed it. Instead, I got _that_.

The first thing I noticed upon opening the door was the lack of pie. The second thing I noticed was that the new neighbor didn't seem welcoming at all. I crossed my arms over the cat's vomit on my shirt with as much dignity as I could muster, and asked him, in a way that would've made my mother proud (if it weren't for the fact that I was was still somewhat slurring from the massive hangover) "What can I do to help you?".

In hindsight, I did sound more like a flight assistant than a poised, polite neighbor. Never mind. It would've been wasted on him anyway.

"You could avoid flushing mould down your toilet, to begin with." He grunted. Hmph.

"…I beg your pardon?"

"The water from my sink was positively muddy this morning. The landlady tells me our plumbing plants are connected, and I'd appreciate it if you avoided soiling it. I don't care what you do in your spare time…" he looked pointedly at the vomit I failed to conceal, "…but please do not meddle with my pipes."

"I'd never dream to."

For a moment he seemed stunned, but then his eyes were drawn to my feet – where the cat had just pooped something green. Something that could never have been produced by an ordinary, non-alien cat.

"Have you been feeding it milk?"

I sniffed, defensive. "Kittens love milk, in case you didn't know."

"Kittens," he said, in that haughty tone of his, "are lactose intolerant. They can't digest milk, it gives them an upset stomach. I assumed someone who owned a cat would at least research some facts."

Damn. "I've just acquired it…unorthodoxly."

"Adopted?"

"Kidnapped."

One of his eyebrows was raised ominously. "Haven't you considered lying about that?"

"I've just met you, and you accused me of throwing huge amounts of brown material down my drains."

"Just make sure it won't happen again."

"It won't."

"Good.".

"Because it didn't. But good luck with your muddy water."

"Good luck with your stolen cat."

And with that, he was gone. In a huff.

What an hideous man.

**11:50 am**

He looked familiar, though.

**11:52 am**

I CAN'T BELIEVE HE DIDN'T REMEMBER ME.

It was Mama's Rude Colin, from her failed matchmaking attempt. And he didn't even have the decency to remember I was the woman whose property he had _trespassed_ on what should've been a perfectly quiet night of _North and South_ marathon, but he _did_ remember that there was an empty flat to be rented downstairs?

It's humiliating to know that a building has more allure than you do. Tsk, Colin. Rude in word and deed.

* * *

**January, 30****th**

**Monday**

**.  
**

**7:15 pm**

Funny thing. Now that I have my own stolen pet, I can't seem to find my pet-plant.

It can't have vanished. Although, if Pinocchio taught us anything is that when you finally have the real deal, the putative pet is bound to be swallowed by a whale.

**7:20 pm**

Seriously, where is it? If Sarah finds out _I've lost a plant_ I'll never hear the end of it.

**7:35 pm**

Shoot _me_. The plant is dead. There's evidence scattered around the sink.

It all came back in that sort of horrific shame-induced flashback you usually experience after a drunk one night stand.

Apparently yesterday night, as I ran after the cat to take pictures of it, I stumbled upon the plant. And because I'm brilliant, I decided to cover the vegetation murder (lest I wanted to confess to Sarah that the plant hadn't survived a week with me) by hiding the poor thing in the cabinet under the bathroom sink and flushing the potting compost down the toilet.

Rude Colin can never, _ever_ know about it.

* * *

**February, 1****st**

**Wednesday**

**3:50 pm**

**.**

I can't believe the cheek of children nowadays. This morning I walked into a wedding, when I actually thought I was walking into, you know, my classroom. Instead I found Carl officiating the wedding of Harold and Lily: carton rings were being exchanged, and Joeffrey was fuming (AHA!). I'll admit it was quite cute, but I had to stop it before they got to the wedding night bit. You never know how far realism would go for the sake of performing arts.

I tried to explain them why it was wrong to marry at the age of ten, but in all truth all I wanted to say was: "If I have to listen to the word 'wedding' once more today I SHALL SCREAM'.

**6:22 pm**

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAURGH!

Needless to say, my mother called.

"Are you bringing a date for the wedding? There's a terrible shortage of men."

"Don't tell _me_."

I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder, while beginning to rummage around the kitchen to find some chocolate. I sensed it was going to be a long conversation, and I figured I would've needed some comfort food.

"I meant among the guests." How does she manage to make me _hear_ her eyes roll through a phone conversation? "You'd think Matthew would have more male friends. The dancing section is going to be tragic."

"There's going to be _dancing_?!" I swallow the first piece of chocolate without bothering to chew, as if it were Prozac.

"Of course there's going to be dancing. Mary was never going to marry on the cheap. Which brings us to flower decorations. I want an opinion, and your sister is being completely useless. If trees were good enough for Kate Middlelton, why can't _we_ have them? The archbishop is on board with this, but your sister insists on callas. Would you believe it?"

"Is '_torture'_ the only reason you called?"

"Don't be smart and listen."

"Yes, mother."

"What are you doing on Sunday night?"

"The same thing I do every night, Pinky."

"What?"

"Never mind. Where do you want me to be?"

"Dinner party. Evelyn Napier is back from Brussels, and his parents tell me he's just _dying_ to enjoy a typical British party once again. Isn't that marvelous?"

I groan involuntarily. I wonder if she'll suggest I show up at this dinner naked. To enhance my chances to Catch the Bachelor.

"I think I'll have other plans, but thank you for your consideration."

"What has been the highlight of your week?"

As a matter of fact, I've transformed plastic bottles into puppets and reenacted the Royal Wedding. I cried.

"For your information, I've been to the theater." I lie, unashamedly, "It was a post avant-garde piece on-"

"You need to breathe some fresh air," she interjects, with that wise motherly tone that always manages to get on my nerves.

"There's air inside."

"Put your head out there…"

"No, seriously, that's how we survive. Air. In the _house_."

"Whatever you may read on the internet, funny is _not_ the new sexy."

Great, even my mother finds me unattractive. Obviously, I give in with a defeated sigh. "At what time should I be there?"

"Seven-thirty. Dress appropriately."

What is it with my family and phones, really? The line goes dead and I stare at the silent cradle for some time. I've just been tricked into attending yet another dull dinner party at _my parent's house_, where I'll be stuck offering beverages to the guests only to be otherwise ignored. Sweet life.

**10:30 pm**

In other news, Gwen won't pick up her phone. How am I supposed to return her pet? I'm starting to suspect this has been an hoax all along. Maybe I didn't steal the cat at all. Maybe they've planted the cat on me; they drugged me, and then made me _think_ I had kidnapped a kitten. It was clearly a minutely detailed ruse to get rid of a pet she didn't want any longer – probably because of its chronically upset stomach. (I still haven't bought appropriate cat food, so it might be that.)

That sneaky, soulless ginger.

**11:45 pm**

Apparently, she's "out of the Country" (I'm still not 100% convinced). She just called from Alaska – honestly, a job interview in _Alaska_? How is it even plausible?

Anyway, she said she'll forget about the whole accident if I take care of Crow until she's back – I think I've just been blackmailed into cat-sitting.

* * *

**February, 3****rd**

**Friday**

**9:17 pm**

**.**

I just want to forget about this weekend's party, but Thomas said I need to be smart about it, show everybody what a graceful, aloof, sophisticated young woman I can be, and throw it in my parents' face.

Thomas wanted to try this new place in Mayfair, he thought it'd be exciting to enjoy the happy hour in a club called Dirty Martini, but in all fairness it looked rather like a place where a Russian Drug Lord would take his mail bride.

I must remember to never reveal any embarrassing detail of my life to Thomas. I told him about the cat, and the plant, and of course about my encounter with Rude Colin, and because he's truly a very lewd five years old, he started singing "Edith and Colin, sitting in a tree, S-H-A-G-G-I-N-G."

"Shut up, Glee." I grunted, trying to shield my face from the curious glances of the waitress.

"You've got to admit it has the potential of a perfect love-hate relationship, it's just a classic."

"You might've failed to notice it, but my life is not exactly a rom-com."

"You have been jilted at the altar, though."

"I have _not_. The engagement was withdrawn a week after he asked, thank you. And you know this subject had been banned from any discussion topic. **And** stop smiling seductively at the barman, it's creeping me out."

"Sorry, you're right. Let's discuss important matters. Tell me about last Sunday's party."

I threw a pop tart in my mouth before replying, "It was awful. Tom got me drunk-"

"Deary, I only meant the very important bits. Did Matthew take off his shirt?", he's perched on the edge of his seat, as if I were about to reveal the secret of Creation itself.

"Why _would_ he do such a thing?"

He seemed disappointed, but not defeated. With a confident nod, he proclaimed solemnly "If there's a God, he will take it off at some point. It's why instagram itself was created."

"You must stop trying to steal my sister's boyfriends."

"It only happened once-"

"Twice."

"-and it's not my fault anyway. Sometimes I'm scared by how attractive I am."

"With great powers come great responsibilities," I said, sharing a meaningful look with him.

He took a sip from his _dirty Martini_ before replying, all pretty and jolly "Don't worry. I would never stand in the way of true love. I'm beautifully selfless like that."

I rolled my eyes because…_honestly_. "I've never known of a love that was not selfish, in some regard."

"Have you swallowed a cynic pill this morning?"

"I mean it. They say love elevates the spirit, that it leads to grand gestures and a brighter world. Whoever doesn't find it, whoever loses it, is treated like a pauper. What a load of bollocks."

For a moment, he stared at me in a contemplative silence; then, with a very serious tone, he asked "…did you talk to your mother recently?"

"…yes."

He handed me the remnants of his cake, and stood up to order more wine with the urgency of a Grey's Anatomy surgeon.

He came back with two glasses and the barman's number. Damn, he's _good_.

* * *

**February 5****th**

**Sunday**

.

**7:20 pm, Downton**

WHY.

**7:21 pm, Downton**

WHY.

The heel of one of my new shoes just broke, and the only spare pair I have in the car's trunk is my driving-trainers.

**7:25 pm, Downton**

No need to panic. I've fixed it with some adhesive tape, band aid and the force of prayers. I've added some tape on the other shoe for the love of symmetry.

**7:32 pm, Downton**

"I _specifically_ told you to dress appropriately. It looks like you're wearing one of your students' art project."

**11:10 pm**, **home**: _a necessary recounting of what followed_

My mother dragged me to a very hidden corner of the main hall, whispering furiously, while I tried to defend myself as best as I could, "I'll have you know that this is Prada's idea of holding your shoe on."

In her hurry to get me out of the view and probably toward some emergence pair of Louboutin she keeps in the kitchen, she didn't notice there was a man on the way and we were both startled when he said, in a kind voice, "She's right Lady Grantham, the DIY vibe dominated the Paris Fashion Week this year. I was invited to the Dior show."

"Evelyn," my mother breathed, suddenly the very face of sweetness, "If you say so it must be true. Well then. I was on my way to the kitchen, just to make sure everything is as it should be. I'll leave you two to it!" and with that, she's gone. I could see she was not too pleased with Evelyn Napier's white lie, but she would never contradict a guest. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

I turned to Evelyn, who was smiling at my way, and I thanked him profusely.

"My pleasure. And anyway, you're not the only one who's had a little wardrobe malfunction." With a smirk, he nodded in Matthew's direction; _Matthew_, who was not (gasp!) wearing a dinner jacket. Hide the children, for the love of God! He was fidgeting, explaining to Granny that he had inadvertently stained it before dinner. Mary was blushing furiously beside him. Do I want to know? I don't think so.

Back to us. (US. _US_!)

"We must be a very improper family," I told him, to fill the silence.

"I hope not too improper."

"Well, maybe only behind closed doors."

I WAS FLIRTING. OH MY GOD. It's like one of those times when necessity gives you the inhuman strength to lift cars in order to save your children and so on. I was so thrilled I chocked on my own saliva and sort of ruined the effect. But still.

He coughed, somewhat amused, and offered me a flute of champagne, which I gratefully accepted. As I'm sipping some Dutch courage, he began, politely, "Your mother tells me you're interested in charity."

I nodded enthusiastically, "Oh, absolutely!"

Actually, I only tried it that one Summer, when I suffered from chronic colitis. Sybil had said it was just my aristocratic guilt manifesting itself through my body and told me charity would've soothed my sense of unfairness and _maladie_. "Doing nothing is the enemy!", she said. Eventually, it came out that the enemy was just an allergy to carrots.

But as Granny says, everyone walks down the aisle with half the story hidden anyway. (not that I'm already planning my marriage to this man I barely know. Obviously.)

"It's very admirable of you. I often wish I had more time to dedicate to the less fortunate."

"This is me, always giving back!" well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"And what do you do now, for a living? Your mother didn't say."

Ah. When one of your sisters is the Prime Minister's campaign manager and the other is in Med School, there's no question you fear more than "What is it that you do again?". Somehow, 'Fourth Grade Teacher' sounds anticlimactic.

"Fourth grade teacher."

"Oh, it's marvelous. It's so important to guide the youngest generations into being better than their predecessors. It's a noble art, that of shaping children into smart, responsible adults."

I scanned his face for traces of sarcasm. There was none. Oh my _God_.

"I'm not the one who's trying to keep Europe afloat during a global recession!"

"Oh, no, I'm just a paper pusher, really. Enough about work, though. Should we go outside? It seems such a pleasant night."

_It was freezing_. But we talked for a whole half an hour before his mother snatched him. He asked for my number.

BAMMO! Another successful interaction with a man!

When I finally got back home, I found a package in front of my door with a signed note from Colin. It was cat food. How dare he suppose I hadn't bought appropriate food after a week? I haven't, for the record, but it's still a pretty rude assumption. I unfold the note. It only reads "For the cat."

Hmph.

As If I'd ever mistake it for people's food.

**11:20 pm**

I'll just focus on tonight's pleasant memories.

Who'd have thought. Family gatherings are not too bad after all.

**11:25 pm**

"Edith, we're okay so _don't_ freak out."

It's Sybil on the phone. Jesus Christ. "Sybil, that's the least reassuring phrase of the English language." I had obviously started to freak out.

"Tom and I have been arrested. We need you to bail us out."

I might want to stay clear from the rest of the family for some time.

.

* * *

**TBC…**


End file.
